


Now Recount Your Sins

by TehChouHenshins (TehChou)



Category: Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: M/M, Mentorship, Pre-Series, age-gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChouHenshins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soukichi takes Shoutarou on a trip to his cabin.</p><p>Warnings in the Author's Notes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Recount Your Sins

**Author's Note:**

> **Skips merrily down to hell**
> 
> So Tro and I were watching that episode with the bear and we were like HEY SOUKICHI WHAT WERE YOU DOING TAKING YOUR PROTEGE TO A SECLUDED CABIN IN THE WOODS and eying him sidelong and then this happened.
> 
> Porn with a tiny, tiny pinch of antics for flavor.
> 
> WARNINGS
> 
> I left Shoutarou's age in this deliberately ambiguous, but this is still, uh, well. A very large, obvious age gap and not exactly the most healthy way to have a relationship with your protege. This is basically a whole lot of Soukichi taking advantage of the much younger and inexperienced Shoutarou, so if that sort of thing doesn't sound like something you'd like, probably best to give this a miss. C:

The sun is warm on the back of his neck, reaching through the fabric of his hat to cook his hair to his skull with sweat. The air sings with cicadas and the croak of frogs. He sets the tackle box down on the semi-flat face of a white stone, leaning the two fishing poles to its right. Shoutarou trudges up the path behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, looking around speculatively, head bobbing like he doesn't look ridiculous. They're deep in the fields and woods behind the cabin, down by the stream that splits through. They're alone here but for the deer and the insects and those fish that make their home in the water, and taste delicious on the plate.

Soukichi gets down on a knee and opens the box, sorting through it to find what he's looking for. Shoutarou peers over his shoulder but doesn't say anything for a moment.

"This is kind of far from the city, isn't it," he says, finally and Soukichi lets out a little grunt of agreement, baiting the hooks on their lines. "Oh," he says and coughs into his hand. "Okay. Um, I'm gonna--"

"Stay here and pay attention," Soukichi interrupts him, before he can give in to his urge to go gallivanting around, searching through the woods and getting eaten by mosquitoes. Shoutarou subsides into silence.

He grows quieter and quieter as Soukichi finishes setting up. He sits on the rock, legs draw up and arms wrapped around the knobby bulk of his knees. He's staring into space, his eyes caught on a nebulous space in the dirt.

"Shoutarou," Soukichi says, but he doesn't move, doesn't twitch and his cheeks are bright red; he looks like he has a fever, or. . . .

Soukichi grabs him by the arm, yanking him around until he's on his feet and facing him. He puts a hand over his forehead, feeling the heat there. It's a dry heat, and he's looking down, eyes darting like he can't meet his and--

Ah. So that's how it is. He takes his hand away and lets him go, shoving the fishing rod into his hand and pushing him by the small of his back down closer to the river bank.

"Now listen," he says, and picks up his own. "And keep quiet until I'm done explaining."

He gives himself some time to think it over, though he doesn't really have much to consider. It's no wonder the boy associated the cabin with his hormones; it's not the first time Soukichi's brought someone here with that intention.

The fish he's caught hiss and spit on the grill, translucent flesh slowly leeching into white. Shoutarou is clumsy as always, having gotten over his quiet spell, strutting around in that way that only those on the cusp of youth and adulthood can quite manage, arrogant and awkward both. His thin calves poke out from his shorts, shirt tails flapping as he whirls into motion. The river splashes up around his ankles, and his bare feet curl around slippery rocks. Even as he watches they come out from beneath him, spilling him into the air onto his backside and soaking him immediately to the bone.

"Ow~," he groans, drawn out as he gets his hands under himself, going awkwardly to his feet, and tottering there like a new-born deer. Soukichi huffs out a sigh and turns to check on the line, but it's hopeless with that idiot running around like he is.

"Shoutarou," he says, voice cracking against the trees as he turns back to the grill, though he doesn't quite mean it to. "Get out of there, you're chasing away our dinner."

And really, he's been teacher in many ways, he can be teacher in this as well. Better him then some slack-jawed high-schooler who doesn't know his prick from his backdoor.

Shoutarou clambers out of the river and drips forlornly onto the bank, sneezing and shivering in his wet clothes. The light hits his hair, the drops of water beading down his throat, dipping down into the hollow of his collarbone.

"Boss," Shoutarou yelps and Soukichi snatches his hand back as the skewered fish dips too low and catches merrily on fire. He bites his tongue on a swear and drops it into the cool dirt, stamping on it as it goes out with a hiss.

"Anyways," he says, and shoves the skewer into a new one.

After dinner Shoutarou comes out of the shower still shivering; there's no hot water here, an extravagance unnecessary, though there is a switch to turn on some small measure for when he's opened these doors to his clients. He's got a towel around his shoulders, and he's wearing a pair of Soukichi's old pajamas, too big on him, the slick silk sliding against his skin as he walks, hanging just past his wrists. He's rolled the pant legs up, but they don't stay well, and he keeps adjusting them, bending down and muttering to himself.

"Sorry boss," he says and throws himself unceremoniously onto one of the chairs. Even as he watches one edge of his old shirt slides open to bare a sliver of still-damp flesh. Shoutarou stifles a yawn behind his palm before he notices his regard, caught in the middle, and slowly lowers his hand back into his lap, blinking. Soukichi turns away, though not before catching Shoutarou shifting in his seat, his hand inching closer to the crux of his legs. Maybe it's discomfort, confusion, but there's something furtive and guilty in his movements and in the last year Soukichi has learned the tells of his body, as would any detective worth his salt.

He hears him as he gets up out of his chair, the pad of his feet over casual as he starts poking around at the decorative baubles sitting on the various surfaces, his fingers dancing as if he has to touch each one. He passes in front of Soukichi, like it makes him bold. 

"So, do you have any games here, something to do? It's, like, three hours before bed, isn't it?" He winds up stopping at Bitou's bear, words trailing off as he picks it up. "What's this," he asks, tilting it this way and that, not looking up so he jumps when Soukichi answers him, closer than he expects.

"An old friend's secrets," he replies, their feet nearly touching as he reaches around him, laying his hand over it and pushing it down until he gets the point and lets it go. His hair smells like cheap shampoo and the lingering hint of river water and there's red creeping up the back of his neck. His breathing changes tone, picks up and his fingers curl into a fist. Soukichi waits a beat, a moment more and then he's moving, arm encircling him, hand sliding in between the open flaps of his shirt until he finds the soft nub of his nipple. His hand twitches and Shoutarou's entire body jumps, sensitive. He holds him there until that first shock of his tension rolls away.

And then he waits some more because Shoutarou is nothing if not indecisive.

After a long, aching moment Shoutarou relaxes into the embrace, and Soukichi can hear the way he swallows down his anxiety.

"Is this what you wanted," he murmurs, bending his head to speak into the shell of his ear. Shoutarou shudders, but he nods, jerkily. Soukichi lets his hand move, rubs the soft skin of his pectoral, with enough pressure that he can't mistake his intent. Shoutarou's body twitches, the muscles under his hand doing strange things as his breath hitches in his throat. He's chewing on his lip; not the most attractive of habits, but Soukichi would be lying if he said he didn't have more pressing concerns at the moment.

Soukichi pulls him a little closer, until he's lying flush against his body, and the curve of his cock is resting against the small of his back. Shoutarou leans into it a little, just enough to be noticeable and Soukichi's other hand drifts to his hip. The fabric is damp beneath his palm, the coolness of it chased away by the heat of the skin beneath. Shoutarou takes a deep breath and his hand reaches behind him, just tangling in Soukichi's pant leg.

He guides him over to the bed, shuffling him forward with insistent pressure. He sits him down with a firm hand, lingering on his shoulder and his thumb rolling circles into the tendons of his neck. Shoutarou looks up at him with wide, darting eyes.

Soukichi leaves him there for a moment, loosens his tie as he stands, pours himself a measure of whiskey and swallows it down. He pours another shot and holds it out to Shoutarou, who takes it, sitting on the bed with his shirt unbuttoned, the curve of his nipple just visible. He swallows another for himself, and Shoutarou unwisely follows suit, taking it in a gulp and nearly spitting it back up as the thickness of the liquor chokes him. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and Soukichi just raises an eyebrow at him. Shoutarou flushes and looks away. Soukichi puts the glass back on the table and crosses over to him, lifting his chin with a firm grip. He swipes a thumb over the corner of his lips where a bead of moisture has gathered. The liquor sits warm in his throat. He considers kissing him.

"Drink it slowly next time," he says, instead and lets him go, returning again with the bottle and a glass. Shoutarou catches himself about to make a face.

"It tastes horrible," he mutters, but he takes it anyways. He looks down at it for a long moment, contemplating the amber liquid. The sleeve of his shirt slips off his shoulder and puddles in the crook of his elbow, baring the slope of his neck and the taut, thin muscles of his shoulders.

"If you don't drink it before it gets warm it will only taste worse," Soukichi says, his fingers at the buttons of his shirt. Shoutarou's eyes flick up to him and fix, blinking rapidly. Soukichi slides off his over coat and the undershirt and tie comes with it. He lays them over the back of a chair, ignoring Shoutarou's stunned gaze for the moment. There's hunger there, brought closer to the surface, layered beneath the uncertainty and nervousness and ineptitude. Soukichi rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with a deft hand and Shoutarou's mouth works like a fish. After a moment his mouth snaps shut and, taking a deep, steadying breath through his nose, he belts the liquor again. He coughs, harder, nearly drops it and Soukichi has to snatch it out of his hand, before it shatters on the ground, lips twisting. He sets it down, away from his clumsy hands.

When he turns back the shirt is off, the fabric a violet puddle on the white sheets.

Shoutarou's got an arm wrapped around himself, fingers digging white divots into the slope of his shoulder. It takes him a moment to lick his lips and let it fall, but he manages it, his doubt lending him unintentional grace. He's beautiful in his newness, in the lines he's crossed and the ones he still has to stretch over, to grow into, potential written in the poetry of the tan lines dividing his summer skin. Soukichi gives into the urge to touch the shell of his ear and Shoutarou shudders, leans into it, eyes falling closed. Soukichi finds a path down his body, putting a hand to his chest and guiding him down, down and down, sprawled backwards, pushing between his legs. 

He brushes against him, and he's already hard, eager, even in the face of the discomfort of his naked skin. Shoutarou strains into even that small contact, startling a gasp from him. His smaller frame dips into the mattress as he takes Soukichi's weight, his hips stuttering upwards, pressing them firmer together. Soukichi's cock swells into full hardness as he rolls into him. Shoutarou's hand comes up to grasp at his arm, strained tight as it holds him upright, hovering over him.

"Is that--" he chokes out, which is stupid, because of course it is, but he swallows the rest of his question back as Soukichi rolls his hips again, answer enough.

It's difficult to pull away, but it's been many long years since he's been sated by the touch of cotton, and the hinted flesh beneath. Shoutarou gasps when the distance between them grows, blinking dazedly, but Soukichi pulls him up by the hips, flipping him over, fingers curling into the hollows between his bones. The tie at Shoutarou's waist comes undone, loosened by their movements, and his pants slip down as Soukichi gets him on his knees, bent forward with his weight resting on his crossed arms. His ass fills out the taut fabric of his underwear, and Soukichi lays a hand over it, dipping in and down, freeing him. Shoutarou lifts his legs obediently, first one and then the other, at the silent, insisting prompting of his hands, baring his skin to the warm air.

If he was a woman he'd be wet, running rivulets down his leg, but as it is his cock is straining, painfully, flushed hot in adolescent eagerness. 

Soukichi slips a hand between the cheeks of his ass, muscle under a layer of soft fat. He finds his tense pucker and runs a finger over it, slow circles. Shoutarou's eyes flutter and he licks his lips, mouth open as he pants. He doesn't move but for that first startled jump, doesn't shy from the contact, but he doesn't push into it either, passive and uncertain at the invasion. He probably doesn't yet know any better than what others have told him, that there's nothing unmanful about the act, the quiet pressure of his peers weighing against what his body tells him it wants. Well, that will change soon enough.

Soukichi reaches over him, grabbing the bottle of lubricant from the drawer on the table. It's his first time, but he won't need much; just a few drops and Soukichi's finger slips in easily. Shoutarou makes a soft, punched out sound, fingers curling in the bedsheets, though his lower half stays lax. Soukichi wonders idly where he learned that; if it's instinctive or if he spent furtive hours on the internet looking up the proper way to give yourself over to someone.

Soukichi crooks his finger and Shoutarou _whines_ , biting it off with a savage chew to his lips and Soukichi sighs and places a hand over his mouth, giving him something to suck on instead, pressing in past the swollen and slightly chapped bulk of his lips, victims of the abuse of his teeth. His mouth is hot and his tongue is wet and he keeps stuttering like he's fighting with himself; the instinct to to bring himself into motion or to lay pliant and wait, taking direction. Soukichi presses down on his tongue until his mouth hangs further open, heavy breath skating over his fingers, a mirror to the ones flexing deeper into him, stretching him into easy acceptance.

It doesn't take long, though it's long enough for the last of Shoutarou's thin composure to crumble, mouthing at his fingers in a fit of decision and wordless need. He withdraws them, leaving a trail of spit and another of glistening lubricant to dry on his skin and he unbuckles his pants, pulling his under clothes down and off, tossing them without care onto the floor. Shoutarou grunts in protest, and Soukichi slaps him lightly on the ass to quiet him, setting the flesh there to rippling. His palm lingers against the skin on the down-stroke, a moment longer then necessary, savoring the unbroken texture. Shoutarou subsides with one last grunt, though his chest heaves and his pulse jumps beneath his skin.

Soukichi grips his cock, heavy in his hand, stroking it to full strength, lining up and sliding in and transferring his hands to the thin bones of Shoutarou's hips. The sensitive head slips in, sticking just a moment before he's taken all of him, eating up the inches between them. Shoutarou moans, long and drawn out and ending in a breathy whimper as his ass raises to meet him, cheeks coming to rest in the hollows of his hips. Soukichi strokes a hand up his side to cool his fervor, the vibrating tension beneath his skin. The lubricant is just enough to ease his way, to lessen the friction inside him, but not to supplant it; Shoutarou will feel it in the morning, won't forget the ache inside him and Soukichi's damp fingers dig in a little tighter, though otherwise he makes no indication of his less-than savory thoughts.

He winds up fucking into him harder than he intends to, Shoutarou's voice rising into a wordless shout that spurs on the strength of his thrusts and bends the lines of Shoutarou's body into twisting, poetic arcs. His thin musculature stands out in stark tension, the long fingers of his hands curling, sweat beading in the hollows dug into his skin. He comes too quickly, the flash-fire of youth, making a mess into the blankets as he gasps through his orgasm untouched and Soukichi keeps going, nowhere near finished. He finds his cock, the still-hard line of it, stokes him until he's a squirming mess beneath him, just because he can. Shoutarou hisses his title in discomfort, skin over-sensitive and body wholly unused to being teased.

"We're not done yet," Soukichi admonishes him and Shoutarou buries his head in the pillow of his arms. His soft hair lays in wisps on his neck. He's young. He might even get hard again soon.

Soukichi pulls out long enough to pull him up, to get him off his arms, back arching. He runs a hand up his neck and Shoutarou's bares it for him, chest heaving and dusky. He digs a finger into the nub of his nipple, the tip of his nail denting it inward with just enough pressure. He gasps his title again and Soukichi pinches, harder, until his breaths end on shuddering, airy sound.

When Soukichi tires of teasing him, he turns them so they're facing, chest to chest and pulls him closer, Shoutarou's legs wrapping around his waist. He sinks down again, with only a little guidance and the look on his face is of concentration, and a light, airy shock like he still hasn't registered what's going on. There's a line of tension between his beetled brows and his hair deepens the shadows falling across his face.

Eventually Soukichi takes pity on him; he can't bring himself to take his hands from him, so he skates up the skin of his back, damp with sweat and radiating the clean smell of the fresh-washed. He pulls Shoutarou's arms away from their cramped place at his chest, tangled together with his head down and his ribs squeezing in at the force of his exhales. Soukichi coaxes him forward, until Shoutarou's buried his face in the crook of his neck, arms linked loosely behind him. He holds him that way for a long time, hovering enough that he can feel it when he thrusts up into him, showing him, teaching his body what it is to take. Shoutarou pants open mouthed into his shoulder and the knobs of his spine and the winged bones of his shoulders stand out starkly from his back. Every so often they jump with the hiccup of his breath.

He does wind up coming again, sometime before Soukichi does, shooting small into the space between them, and wetting the muscles of his stomach, slick and smooth.

Soukichi lets him go, lays him back down, leans over him. His lashes are damp, clumped and spiky and Soukichi realizes belatedly that not all the condensation on his shoulder is from his lungs. He closes his eyes and grips himself tight and Shoutarou ends with streaks running up his chest, in his hair, and rolling down the hill of his cheek.

He wakes in the small hours of the night. Shoutarou is curled up on his side, still naked, face lax and sweet; none of the reckless fire that fuels his days sitting on his sleeping brow. There's an arm's length of space between them, but Shoutarou's hand is stretched out, fingers curled just brushing the skin of his arm.

Soukichi gets out of bed and takes the bottle with him, pulling his pants from their place on floor. He goes outside and sits until the bottle is gone and the sun is up, shining from the silhouettes of the trees.

He won't be kind to him -- it's not what he needs. To be kind is a death sentence; better he learns quickly and early what the world wants from him. He's too soft, too eager, everything he feels writ large on his body, in the tilt of his head and the grin on his lips and the bruises on his cheeks when he scuffs too hard with the local kids. Too _breakable_.

If he's not careful it'll he be who breaks him. A curl of guilt hooks itself in his gut and he rubs his fingertips over his forehead with a sigh.

"Shoutarou," he snaps, standing, not waiting for the answer that drifts from the open window. "Get out here. I'm teaching you how to set a trap."


End file.
